Curiously Clark opened the book. A frontispiece showed an extraordinary engraving full of allegorical symbolism, in which the obscure imagery seemed to flood down from heaven to earth. The title page bore the even more confusing legend: Dr Ruddick’s Dissertation upon the Holy Trinity. There was a subtitle which began: In which Dr Joshua Ruddick extrapolates from Holy Scripture… Clark read no further. He looked up at Gifford.
‘I presume this is the key to a code, rather than a joke?’ he said.
Gifford nodded. ‘Look inside the back cover.’ Clark did as he was bid and found a sheet of ricepaper which, when unfolded, showed two columns of words. On the left a list culled, he guessed, from the pages of the inestimable Dr Ruddick’s thesis, on the right the Admiralty’s reinterpretation. Thus ‘Almighty’ was rendered by ‘Their Lordships’, ‘cypher’ into ‘iceberg’ and ‘Holy’ into ‘North’. Clark ran his finger down the page to find what corresponded with ‘South’, only to find that it had no relationship with sanctity: ‘Manifold,’ he read.
‘We anticipate a need to send you an occasional signal. No doubt the tactical situation will demand it. The method we shall use is simple. You will receive a numerical group for each word. We chose the book not only for its obscurity, but because it contains only ninety-six pages of text – there are, incidentally, some marvellously curious engravings, several of which are missing – anyway, each numerical group will consist of five figures.
‘The first two figures gives you the page number, one to ninety-six; the third and fourth the line number, one to thirty-six; the last figure the word number on that line. This will not exceed ten, so for the tenth we will transmit a zero. It’s obvious if you have the book. I doubt Jerry will find it in time, even if he scours every bookshop in Berlin.’
‘The Nazis have been rather efficient at burning books,’ Clark said ruminatively, digesting Gifford’s cypher and flicking through the little volume.
‘I think I might be persuaded to chuck this one on the fire,’ Gifford said with a chuckle, ‘but clearly the good Dr Ruddick has a value in the Divine Plan, though not one he could have imagined.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ Clark said, regarding an extraordinary image of God’s Bounteous Munificence Raining down upon Mankind, ‘he seems to possess a remarkable imagination.’
‘Well, that may be so, but d’you think you can manage?’
Clark looked up. ‘Oh yes, certainly, sir.’
‘And how’s the ship?’
Clark gave a short laugh. ‘We’ve had our tribulations, but she’s shaping up well, as is her company.’
‘Frobisher all right?’
‘Yes, he seems a good man. Get’s a bit edgy when he considers his position surrounded by we amateurs,’ Clark added ironically.
Gifford laughed. ‘And the Norwegians?’
‘Olsen’s first class, no doubt about that. Storheill knows his job, but of course I find it a little more difficult to get inside his skin. Intuition’s not so reliable as with your own kith.’
‘No, of course not. What about the ratings?’
‘Oh, predictably we’ve a couple whose departure must have delighted their first lieutenants, but I’m happy enough with them.’
‘I hear your trials went well.’
‘Well enough, sir, but I’m afraid I only regard them as a preliminary to a decent work-up in Arctic conditions…’
‘Quite right, quite right.’ Gifford drained his glass and shook his head when Clark offered him another.
‘I’m trying to loosen your tongue, sir,’ Clark said with a grin, ‘so that you’ll tell me the latest about our friend, which is,’ Clark looked down at the sheet of ricepaper, ‘I notice, called “conjured”…’
‘A noun made perfect,’ Gifford joked, ‘to dwell amongst us.’ He paused. ‘Well, we are pretty certain that Orca went north at the same time as Tirpitz. You won’t know it, but the Tirpitz is now in Norwegian waters…’
‘I did know, sir. Admiral Tovey told me. I presume that is why the Home Fleet is at sea.’
Gifford nodded. ‘Well then, you appreciate the sense it makes from the German point of view to form a formidably heavy squadron in Norway to intercept and destroy our Russian convoys. In addition to the Tirpitz we know that the Admiral Scheer is already in Norwegian waters, but what you may not have heard is that, to our eternal shame, the Gneisenau, Scharnhorst and Prinz Eugen with a screen of destroyers and torpedo boats got out of Brest and ran up the Channel under our noses. They’re back home virtually unmolested…’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes, it was a piss-poor show. The PM’s furious and awkward questions are being asked. They may have suffered some damage, but we are not yet certain. Their ultimate destination is, however, probably Norway, and that would add a political dimension to Operation TREE-TOP. Although this wouldn’t essentially alter anything as far as you’re concerned, the potential inherent in either one or, God forbid, both of these powerful battlecruisers augmenting an already powerful battle squadron in Norway – with which Orca would cooperate fully – only compounds our difficulties.’
‘Yes, that’s pretty clear.’
‘The main thing is that, at the moment, we have a slender advantage in timing. With the Home Fleet at sea, we can maintain this advantage for a while at least. You are ready to sail and we know Orca has been delayed due to some technical difficulties. Naturally we don’t have details but we do know this is only a short delay, to be measured in days rather than weeks. I’m fairly confident in my own mind that that is why Tirpitz was, at the last report, no further north than Trondheim.’ Gifford’s knowing expression indicated Kurt as the source of much of this information and its consequent reliability.
‘I understand,’ Clark said.
‘Right then, we need to get you north as quickly as possible. As we speak PQ12 is on its way from Loch Ewe to Reykjavik, where she’ll pick up her ocean escort. As I say, the Home Fleet is in support, so you are to sail immediately. You are notionally one of a group of British and Norwegian anti-submarine whalers assigned to beef up the anti-submarine defences of PQ12,’ Gifford referred to a sheet of paper. ‘In addition to Sheba, the Shera, Shusa, Stefa, Sulla and Svega are all ordered to the rendezvous with PQ12 to the north of Iceland. Several will be instructed not to join, but will be recalled and told to turn back. You will be one of them. Naturally you will disobey this order.’
‘Naturally,’ Clark responded ironically.
Gifford smiled. ‘The difference between you and Nelson is that we expect you to disobey.’
‘Well, history expected Nelson to disobey, sir,’ replied Clark with a grin.
‘That’s true,’ Gifford smiled. ‘Anyway, you shall go first to Seidisfjord, where you will top up your fuel. You will then appear to be one of the “missing” escorts.’
‘So you think it unlikely that Orca, with or without Tirpitz, will sortie against PQ12, sir?’
Gifford shrugged. ‘We can’t be certain. It’s possible that Tirpitz may, but I don’t think Orca will attack from the south. She is being saved for a coup de main. The Germans are not likely to go all out until they are ready. It’s inconceivable that they will expose Tirpitz to the Home Fleet; they’ll wait until they reinforce her with the Scheer and at least one battlecruiser from Brest. Then, with a fast and powerful battle squadron, they will be a real threat which will interdict our convoys. Don’t forget what they did to Glorious hereabouts in 1940. My guess is they’ll wait to inflict a real humiliation on us which will have a tremendous impact upon our relations with both Joe Stalin and the Americans. If you could see the effect this bloody Channel dash by the Jerries is having in the Admiralty, let alone Downing Street or the country in general, you’d realise that this is a pretty bloody awful time for us. Frankly it’s been a real fuck-up.’ Gifford expelled air, as though releasing more than the pressure in his lungs. ‘No, there will be other Russian convoys.’ He paused again. ‘Look,’ he went on after a moment, ‘the importa
nt thing is that you are directed to attack Orca, and only Orca. You are not to get mixed up in anything else. That’s clear, I hope?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good. Well, so much for the general strategy. I can’t tell you much about Orca’s tactical approach beyond pointing out the obvious to you. Your orders will tell you that we’ve been using the fjords on the ice-free west coast of Spitsbergen as a rendezvous. We’ve been locating a fleet oiler in either Horn Sound, Bell Sound or Green Bay, so Orca won’t be seen on that coast. There are two German weather observing stations further north, and we’ve plans to deal with them when the Arctic spring comes, but the risk of our aircraft spotting Orca is too great for him. My guess is that he’ll poke himself up, depending upon the ice conditions, in the locality of Hope Island, to the eastward of Spitsbergen’s South Cape…’
‘Yes, that was my conclusion.’
‘It’s obvious, as these things so often are, for the options are limited.’ Gifford regarded the younger man. ‘Now do you have any questions?’
Clark shook his head, then remembered his manners. ‘Oh, only to ask if you would like something to eat, sir?’
Gifford shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ve an aeroplane standing by to take me back to Northolt. Besides, I must let you get away.’
‘I’m at two hours’ notice.’
‘Good. Word will be passed to the boom defence when I report to the Admiral,’ Gifford said briskly. ‘Now, we’ve a few personal details to tie up…’
‘Yes, I’ve the men’s wills here…’
They concluded their business and stood up. Gifford turned to pick up his briefcase.
‘Oh, I almost forgot. This comes with my personal compliments.’ Gifford pointed to a cylindrical brown-paper parcel tied up with sisal string.
‘What is it?’ Clark asked.
‘A surprise,’ Gifford said smiling. ‘But you might find it useful.’ Clark’s curiosity was swept aside as Gifford held out his hand, his face suddenly serious as he looked directly into Clark’s eyes. ‘I don’t underestimate the risks, Commander Clark, nor the danger of your enterprise. I’ve been very frank with you, which, with your peculiar involvement in this matter, was only fair. You’d better let Frobisher know all the details, in case anything happens to you, and brief the rest – officers and men – as you see fit.’ Gifford paused, then added, ‘I can only wish you luck, my dear chap. It’s a pathetically thin convention, but no less sincere.’
Gifford’s handshake was firm and Clark felt touched by the captain’s concern. ‘That’s very decent of you, sir.’
‘We’ll have dinner in London when you get back. You’ll report personally to me, of course. Nothing in writing.’
‘Of course.’
Gifford pulled a Burberry raincoat over his dark suit and picked up the bowler hat. They stepped out on to the windy deck. It was already almost dark. He saw Gifford down to the waiting boat, wondering what the men in the boat and those on his own deck made of the visitor. Should he tell his crew anything yet, or wait until he opened his orders? That would be after they had refuelled in Seidisfjord on the east coast of Iceland. It would be time enough.
The midshipman in the boat gave an order and turned his wheel. The bowman bore off and then he and the sternsheetsman went through their formal ritual with their boathooks. He saw Gifford turn his face upwards and wave. He waved back as the boat faded into the gloom, its pale wake trailing out astern of it.
‘Pass word for the first lieutenant, I’ll be in the wheelhouse,’ he said.
* * *
They slipped through the boom three hours later. It was a raw night, with a fresh, south-westerly breeze and a lot of cloud as they headed for the passage between Hoy and Swona. By midnight they had doubled Tor Ness and had laid a course for Iceland. Somewhere to the north-west of them the eighteen laden freighters – a mixture of British, Russian and American-owned, Panamanian-flagged merchantmen – headed for Reykjavik with a local escort of anti-submarine trawlers. From Iceland a cruiser, destroyers and the whalers would take over the convoy’s protection. Somewhere to the north were Tovey and the Home Fleet, operating in support of convoy PQ12, anxious to bring the Tirpitz to battle and avenge the humiliation of – what was it Gifford had called it? – the Channel dash.
Such was the scale of these Arctic operations.
* * *
Clark went below to his cabin. Gifford had left him two letters and the cylindrical parcel. He opened the last and found himself holding a German naval ensign.
‘Good heavens!’ With a slight feeling of distaste he held up the woollen bunting. He stared at it a moment, then he carefully folded the Nazi colours and wrapped its own tackline round it as he had been taught as a cadet on HMS Conway. Next he opened his mail. There was a short letter from his father expressing disappointment that they had not met during his brief leave. Such were the vicissitudes of war, his father had written, that there would not be many such occasions. Nevertheless he wished his son well. Clark, tired at the end of a long day, imagined his father had some inkling that his present posting might be special and seemed to detect some such hint in the wording of Captain Clark’s letter. But it was speculation, merely the manifestation of a wish that his father, owing to his connections with Sir Desmond Cranbrooke and the Ministry of War Transport, might glean some insight into his mission. The fatuous hope arose from a desire that somehow the import of his plight would reach Magda, if only to touch her conscience.
He picked up the second letter and knew the handwriting instantly. He had seen it many times before, the small, neat and legible hand of Jenny O’Neil. He opened it with a sinking heart. He had no idea of its contents, of course, but he did not want to read of Jenny’s undying devotion to him, did not want to break her heart which, in his conceit, he nevertheless rightly guessed she had lost to him. Any effusion of passion would, he thought, make him feel slightly foolish. He was already beginning to regret their affair as an embarrassment. He recognised the unworthiness of the thought, but that did not stop it rising unbidden in his consciousness. With some relief at Jenny’s brevity, he unfolded the single sheet. Dear Jack, he read,
I miss you but I know you can’t respond and I will leave it at that. I will be glad to see you when you come on leave next time. The house is very lonely now, worse than it was before you came here. It would be all right but I am late and think we have made a baby. I don’t want to worry you but you should know. I don’t expect you to marry me or anything silly. I will have to lose my job when it becomes obvious.
Yours sincerely, Jenny
It was the misplaced formality of the Yours sincerely, that struck him first. Then the tragic stupidity of the letter’s true message took its visceral grip on him and he sat back in the uncomfortable upright chair.
‘Oh fuck,’ he murmured. ‘Oh Magda, you bitch…! Look what I have done… Poor, poor Jenny… Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…’
* * *
HMS Sheba entered Seidisfjord on a day of blustery weather in early March. The high sides of the fjord were scarred by snow and the black gashes of rock where the gradient was too precipitous for the snow to lie. On the narrow areas of coastal plain a few farmhouses were scattered. Several bore swastikas, a fact which outraged Pearson, who assumed the devices to be evidence of German sympathisers.
‘Think, Derek,’ Clark pointed out with an utterly uncompromising tone to his voice as they stared through their glasses at the crooked crosses. ‘Their country has been pre-emptively occupied, first by we British and now we’ve handed the job over to the Yanks. I don’t suppose the natives feel terribly bloody pleased.’
He was grimly sensitive to cause and effect, utterly heartless towards Pearson and his silly verbalising.
‘That doesn’t mean they have to be so obviously unfriendly.’
Clark was about to shut Pearson up with a savagery that would have been both unkind and unfair, when Storheill emerged on to the little bridge wing and prepared to take another set of
compass bearings as they steamed towards the distant oiler.
‘Ah, but what you do not know, Derek,’ reproved Storheill, ‘is that the swastika is not an emblem only for the Nazis. In our Nordic culture it is a good luck sign.’
‘Huh, that’s no reason to paint it on your walls,’ Pearson persisted.
‘It has some such significance in India too,’ Clark added, mastering himself and trying to be reasonable and didactic in a commanding-officer-like way, ‘and at home I’ve a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories with a swastika decoration on the spine.’ He might have added, and a bloody great German ensign in my cabin, but he held his tongue. There was no need to unbend that far!
‘Oh, why don’t I keep my big mouth shut?’ Pearson said.
‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ Frobisher asked, coming out to join them as a patch of sudden sunlight lit up the peak above them, drawing their eyes upwards in mute wonder. ‘My God, what a pitiless landscape,’ he said, half to himself.
‘You wait until you get into the high Arctic,’ Clark said. He could only look forward now. There was no point in looking back, but he resented the fact that Jenny’s predicament spoiled his return to high latitudes. It was not her fault and he held only himself to blame. He had sunk to Magda’s level, he thought, unless the war fucked all of them up, one way or another.
‘Oiler’s in sight, sir,’ Storeheill reported and Clark swung his glasses ahead to where the dark shape of the tanker lay at anchor in the fjord with a destroyer alongside her. He was glad of the necessity to concentrate on the business of bringing his ship alongside the auxiliary. Not even his conscience could reprove him for giving that matter his priority. Gladly he relinquished his private misery for his duty.
‘Very well, call her up and request twenty-two tons of boiler oil.’
‘Ver’ good, sir,’ said Storheill. ‘Signalman!’
‘And Pilot… Pass word that this is the last opportunity for mail.’
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